BERTIE MEETS JACK MIDNIGHT AT THE SPRING.
Flora enjoyed the funeral very much. She had never had a dead bird to
bury before, and she thought it a very nice thing; so nice in fact, that
she meant to come back some day and have it over again. So she marked
the spot with a stick, that she might know where to find the bird when
she wanted it for another funeral. That it was hid from her sight
forever she had not the least idea, or that she could not re-bury it
whenever she choose. So she planted the stick, and went away with a
happy heart.
When she knew that the birdy could be buried only once, and that she was
not to disturb the spot, she mourned her loss afresh. But Amy told her
she would plant a daisy on the little mound, and it should be her own,
and she should think of her bird whenever the flowers bloomed. And
Charley promised to buy a bright yellow canary, if he could ever save
money enough, and it should be "a regular screamer." She wanted Bertie
to make the cage at once, but Bertie thought he could not make a cage
good enough for a canary. He would have a beauty on hand, however, by
the time Charley got ready to purchase the bird. This was meant as a sly
hit at Charley who never had any money. He fully intended to buy the
bird, but canaries cost money, and Charley's pockets were always empty,
so far as money was concerned.
Flora had little faith in Charley's promises. Bertie had a new idea in
his head. He wanted to prepare a trap for a musk-rat. That was why he
could not attend to making the cage. If he succeeded in catching
one--and he thought he should, for the spring was full of them--Flora
was to have all the perfumery she wanted. So she was comforted, and in
time--a very short time--forgot all about the robin. Bertie set his
trap, and waited. Nobody believed in the musk-rat but Flora. She had
faith in the success of all Bertie's undertakings. Everybody else
laughed at him for his pains. Charley said he was a "goney," whatever
that may be, and Amy advised him to turn his attention to something
sensible. He travelled down to the spring every morning before
breakfast, and with quickly beating heart examined the trap. There was
nothing in it, but there were tracks all around. He resolved to follow
up those tracks, and see what would come of them. It was a long walk to
the spring, and a lonely walk. Other traps were set thereabouts, but
their owners lived near by, or came from the upper road. Of course he
never asked for Charley's company. Charley had no faith, and he
ridiculed the idea of going so often on a wild-goose chase. But Bertie
reasoned within himself,--other fellows caught musk-rats, why should not
he? His traps were as good as theirs, his bait the same. To be sure he
never had caught one, but that was no reason he never should. There must
be a first time for every thing. And when he did trap one, wouldn't
Charley change his tune? The spring was alive with musk-rats. One
_should_ find the way into his trap. He hoped it would be a "buster." He
was on the road to the spring, when these thoughts passed through his
mind. There had been a white frost, and the air was keen. He thrust his
hands into his pockets, and ran along, whistling cheerfully. His
spirits were light, and his hopes high. He half expected to find a
musk-rat in his trap. He had made the path to it so easy and inviting,
surely something must have found the way thither. Not a musk-rat,
perhaps, but something. When he got there, he was surprised to find a
boy examining his trap. It was not an agreeable surprise, for the boy
was Jack Midnight; the very last person in the world with whom he
desired to have any dealings. It was the same Jack who dishonestly made
way with Charley's calico rooster. Bertie was angry. Without stopping to
inquire into the circumstances, as he would have done if it had been any
other boy, he at once jumped to a wrong conclusion. He thought that Jack
was plotting mischief, and without waiting for his hot blood to cool, he
called, quickly,
"Come out of that!"
"Do you know what you are gabbing about?" queried Jack.
"I guess I do."
"And I guess you don't. Supposing you hold your horses a minute?"
"It is a mean thing, any how, to meddle with another fellow's trap."
"It is your trap, is it?"
"Yes, it is."
"Well, who's a meddling?"
"You."
"I ain't."
"You are."
"I say I ain't; and who knows best, I should like to know?"
You may know that Bertie was angry, or he would not have stooped to
bandy words with such a boy. Besides he would have been afraid, for Jack
was a big boy. He was larger, stronger, and a great deal older than
Bertie, and he was much better qualified for fighting in every way. He
had had a deal of practice. But when a boy is angry, he does not stop to
consider consequences. It was fortunate for Bertie that Jack did not
feel disposed to quarrel with him. He could have shaken him as easily as
a dog shakes a squirrel, and resistance would have been of no avail. For
once, Jack was doing nothing to be ashamed of, and he knew he was right.
That helps a boy a great deal. When he knows he is right, he does not
feel half so much like striking back. Perhaps you think he did strike
back when he replied to Bertie's uncivil words; but you must remember
that Jack was a desperate fellow, and if he had not been well disposed
he would hardly have taken the trouble to strike with his tongue. And
language that would sound very rough from the lips of a better bred boy,
was not so bad, after all, coming from Jack Midnight. He was secretly
very much ashamed of his conduct towards the rooster, particularly as
Charley and Bertie had never taken any notice of it. They had simply
allowed him to go his own way, taking care, however, that his track
never crossed theirs. When they could avoid it, they did not speak to
him; when they could not, they were civil in speech--never rude. This
annoyed and humbled Jack. To have enemies that were not enemies, was a
new experience. He looked upon all as against him who were not his
avowed friends. But here were two boys who could not be friends, and,
although he had deeply injured them, he could not call them enemies. He
wanted to do something to show that he was very sorry about the rooster;
something to show that he was not bad, clear through. Bertie's quick
temper flashed, and then went out.
"It looked very much like it, as I came up," he said, in a more gentle
tone.
"Somebody's been a meddling," retorted Jack; "but 'twas not me."
"Who then?"
Jack pointed to the trap. The bait was gone! Yes, somebody had been
meddling.
"I should like to know who," said Bertie.
Jack laughed.
"Follow them tracks, and may be you'll find him. It is easy getting out
of your trap as well as in."
Bertie eagerly examined the tracks.
"Musquash," said Jack.
"You don't mean to say that there has really been one in the trap?"
"Been in and out again. He has had one good meal, perhaps he will come
for another."
Bertie was so delighted at having caught something that at first he did
not mind its getting away at all; but when he came to reflect, he was
sorry to have lost such a prize. If he could only have carried it home
in triumph, how Charley would have stared!
"If that was my trap," said Jack, "I'd fix it."
"What would you do?"
"Tinker that spring so that it wouldn't hold fire, you bet."
"I did not know it needed tinkering."
"It would puzzle a musquash to get out of _my_ trap. I'd fix it so that
it would go off if he touched it with a whisker."
"I don't know how," said Bertie.
Jack gladly offered his services. Here was a chance to make a small
payment on account.
"If you would be so kind, and not mind my speaking cross just now."
"That's nothing," returned Jack, shortly. "Now if I can find anything
to 'couter' with."
He searched his pockets and brought up a coil of wire, some string, a
file, a pair of pincers, and so many different articles that Bertie
laughingly inquired if he was a travelling tool-chest.
"Pockets is handy," said Jack, "if they ain't holey. Whenever I come
across anything, I jest drops it in."
And so he did. Many things went into Jack's pockets that did not belong
there.
"Now hand us the trap, and we will get ready for the musquash."
"Will he come again, do you think?"
"What's to hinder? He knows what good grub is as well as you do. He will
be poking his nose in again as sure as you're born."
"I hope he will," said Bertie.
"Did you ever catch one?"
"No."
"Never skun one, I suppose?"
"Never."
"I have, heaps of all kinds. Sold 'em too. That's a neat trade."
"Selling them?"
"Skinning 'em."
"I expect it is," said Bertie.